From: claypotato@netscape.net   
      
   IN THE CLEARING (2/4)   
      
   by Rae Lynn (claypotato_AT_netscape.net)   
      
   ________________________   
      
   In the morning Mulder seemed drawn, easily startled by mundane noises   
   like the coffeemaker and the neighborhood garbage trucks.   
      
   "I want to see Scully," he announced forebodingly over a   
   physician-recommended high-calorie breakfast that seemed to make him   
   more nauseous than energized.  For a split second I felt an encroaching   
   horror --  --   
   before I realized that he had meant her gravestone.   
      
   I opened my mouth to protest, but immediately relented.  I couldn't deny   
   him this.   
      
   "And," he added in a quieter voice, staring into his plate, "I want to   
   see Liam."   
      
   "Fine," I said, "but first we've got to get you some clothes that fit."   
      
   * * *   
      
   The only clothes that seemed adequate for his tall but emaciated frame   
   were in the boys' department.  I'd made it my policy to be honest with   
   Fox Mulder since his return, but I was goddamn certain I would never   
   tell him about this.  An hour later Mulder was outfitted in jeans and a   
   dark green sweater, because despite the unseasonably warm weather I was   
   sure that otherwise I would catch him shivering.   
      
   Dana Scully had been buried next to her sister in a small Catholic   
   cemetery almost a year ago.  Liam had wailed inconsolably through the   
   entire service despite the entire Scully family's attempts to soothe   
   him, and toward the end of the ceremony Frohike, with his flair for   
   dramatic mourning, very nearly joined in.  Even Kersh had the decency to   
   wear a dark suit and scowl uncomfortably from the back row.  As we   
   walked back to our black cars after the ceremony, I had been certain I   
   saw cigarette smoke wafting towards her headstone.  Out of respect for   
   Agent Scully I had resisted the urge to duck behind a tree and punch the   
   living shit out of the tall, dark figure I was sure I would have found   
   there.   
      
   I'd expected Mulder to stumble on the rough ground at the cemetery --   
   hell, he was barely capable of sitting up straight without snapping in   
   two-but as we approached Scully his steps were somehow surer than ever   
   and his voice, which had seemed stretched so thin yesterday, was   
   unhesitating and strong.   
      
   "I'd like a minute alone."   
      
   Of course.  I nodded, not trusting my voice.  I'd chewed out Mulder's   
   ass more times than I could count, but to choke up in front of him was   
   unthinkable.  I stepped away and Mulder's gaze followed me from out of   
   the corner of his eyes, waiting until I was well out of earshot.  From a   
   distance I watched him stare hard down at the gravestone, and I turned   
   away.  If he wasn't back in twenty minutes I'd have to make sure he   
   hadn't fallen and cracked his head, but until then I left him to grieve   
   in private.   
      
   * * *   
      
   When Mulder returned his hands were trembling.  He must have felt the   
   tremors, because he shoved them in his pockets and turned his face up to   
   me defiantly, his gaze clearer than it had been since I had first seen   
   him.   
      
   "When Scully was...returned," he said suddenly, turning his face into   
   the breeze, "her sister made me stand by her bedside and...wave my arms,   
   around her body.  I told her I felt ridiculous.  Do you know what she   
   said to me?"   
      
   I shook my head mutely.   
      
   "She said, 'Her soul is here.'  She told me that I could feel it."  He   
   paused.  "I told her she was wrong.  But now..."   
      
   He looked at the ground.  "If Scully were alive," he said bitterly, "I   
   would feel it."   
      
   I was treading on thin ice, but I asked the question anyway.   
      
   "What *do* you feel?"   
      
   It was a cheap question to ask a man who'd been educated in psychology   
   at Oxford, and I didn't anticipate an honest answer.  If I had, I might   
   have guessed anger...sadness...guilt.  But to my surprise, Mulder seemed   
   to consider the question for a beat longer than I'd expected.  Then he   
   turned to me with a small, humorless smile.   
      
   "Tired."   
      
   * * *   
      
   Mulder's breaths came quick and shallow in the car on the way to   
   Margaret Scully's house.  "Mulder," I finally growled, glancing over at   
   him, "you keep breathing like that and you're going to knock yourself   
   into a heart attack."   
   "That might be for the best, sir," he shot back immediately.  So there   
   was some of Mulder still lurking there beneath the surface, then.  As we   
   pulled up I could see Mrs. Scully's head duck out of sight through the   
   front window.  She had obviously been expecting us.   
      
   "You all right, Mulder?" I asked as we started up the driveway.  It was   
   a preposterous question; Mulder was never going to be all right again.   
   But he nodded without looking at me.  If they had only known it would be   
   so nearly impossible to break this man, I thought, they might never have   
   dared to try in the first place.   
      
   Mrs. Scully answered the door almost immediately and, like the Gunmen,   
   drew back, stunned into momentary silence at the sight of Mulder.  It   
   wasn't his gauntness, I had decided, having suffered through the same   
   reaction myself, but the mere presence of him.  Surely there was an apt   
   metaphor somewhere --  -- but I had yet to unearth   
   it.   
      
   Scully's mother recovered quickly, though, as Mulder's mouth attempted   
   to form words.  "Fox," she said quietly, reaching out to grasp both his   
   hands with hers.  "Please, come inside."   
      
   With great difficulty, Mulder seemed to regain his power of speech.   
   "Mrs. Scully," he said, in a voice that was almost a whisper.  "I am so   
   sorry about Dana."   
      
   Mrs. Scully managed the ghost of a smile.  "I know you are," she said.   
   "And I know that Dana would be so...pleased...to have you home again."   
   She paused.  "She always believed that she would find you."   
      
   There was a fleeting moment of panic in Mulder's eyes, but he managed to   
   compose himself and took a step closer to Scully's mother.  "And she   
   has," he said brokenly.  "She has."   
      
   Christ, we were a maudlin bunch, I thought as Mrs. Scully retreated to   
   the kitchen to make tea.  Mulder's eyes flittered nervously around the   
   living room, drinking in the obvious significance: a high chair here, a   
   playpen there, a photograph of Scully holding Liam that Mulder gazed at   
   reverently before shaking his head to break the spell.  Mrs. Scully   
   reappeared in time to answer the question that was clearly written on   
   Mulder's face: "Liam's just down for a nap," she reported gently.  "He   
   should be waking up any minute now."   
      
   Mulder nodded uneasily.  One uncomfortable round of tea later, Mrs.   
   Scully seemed to gather her strength and turn to Mulder, who was staring   
   vacantly into his cup as if he expected the tea leaves to reveal   
   Scully's face.   
      
   "Fox," she said.  "Would you like to see him?"   
      
   Mulder opened his mouth to answer but instead merely nodded.  As Mrs.   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)